


Poetry

by moon_hotel



Category: Kaiji
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-13
Updated: 2012-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-07 15:14:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_hotel/pseuds/moon_hotel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Muraoka pursues the fine art of Japanese poetry. Brief character spoilers for part 3 (Datenroku Kaiji).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poetry

_Muraoka pursues the fine art of Japanese poetry. Brief character spoilers for season 3._  

He hadn't practiced calligraphy since he was in middle school, high school, maybe _\--_ but he had been walking by a shop window and noticed a gorgeous lacquer box with a brush and some ink and a stone and a clean, sharp stack of white paper. He felt the warm glow of "I can afford that!" in his stomach, and five minutes later he walked out of the shop with that very same set tucked under his arm. 

It took some practice. He started off writing his name in halting, jerky strokes, and felt so discouraged he practically tossed the box onto the street, but then remembered exactly how much the dumb thing had cost and was resolved to try it again. Eventually his brushstrokes got themselves together enough to actually resemble _Takashi Muraoka._

He stared down at the white, white page and the black, black ink, turning it back and forth a little, feeling a kind of mediocre pride. All of a sudden, it came to him:  _This,_ he thought, grinning down at the page,  _is my most expensive signature ever._

It thrilled him. These scrawls--chicken scratches, really--were made with a calligraphy set worth more than some peoples' rent checks. Even the most halting, awkward set of letters came from the ink and brush of a king! He was so excited that he grabbed another piece of paper, and another, and another, and soon he had what must have been seven or eight renditions of _Takashi Muraoka_ scattered all over his room.

It was then that he became very serious. "This is serious," he proclaimed, with the kind of gravitas that hovered awkwardly in the empty room and then promptly dissolved out of embarrassment. "I have to write something important."

Staring down at the clean sheet in front of him, he suddenly felt very anxious. He dipped the brush in ink, moved it down, lifted it back up, lowered it, lifted it--

\--paused--

\--and wrote _Takashi Muraoka_ , then groaned and shoved the paper aside. What a stupid, silly thing to do. Why spend all this money on a calligraphy set just to write his own damn name? Stupid, stupid! And wasting paper, too! 

 _"Maybe it wouldn't be such a waste if you'd paid more attention in art class,"_ something said. With a snarl, he snatched another sheet of paper off the stack, grabbed his ink stick and ground it angrily into the stone. He dipped in the brush and drew it across the paper in quick, jerking lines:

**_This calligraphy set is too damn expensive!_ **

He sat up, looked down at it, blinked, and burst out laughing. The brush rattled to the floor as he leaned back, wheezing uproariously, tears streaming out of his eyes. He wiped them off onto the sleeve of his yukata (he changed into it just for the occasion), wicking off his sweat and nervousness too. Even a third-rate joke like that could suddenly become funny. Maybe he could send it in to a radio show.

It made him feel a lot better, and he set it aside and pulled off another sheet with renewed vigor. They always say to write what you know, and he certainly knew what he knew, anyway! How hard could writing be? Maybe he could try poetry.

Poetry, he distantly remembered, was all about nature. Trees and things. Or was it "nature" like, human nature? Something about finding the basic truths in the world? 

 _"Maybe you wouldn't be having this trouble if you'd paid more attention in lit cla--"_ Quickly Muraoka shoved the nagging voice out of his mind. Basic truths, he told himself. Basic truths. Gambling. Money. Games. Basic truths.

 ** _What is a game?_ ** he wrote.

**_A box and pieces of_ **

...of?

Well?

Nope, nothing. He set it aside, and tried again.

**_Like a war with two sides_ **

**_And a whole bunch of pieces_ **

Getting better, but "a whole bunch of pieces?" 

 ** _Like the art of war,_ ** oh man, that's a good one--the Art of War! Muraoka kept writing, excitedly,

**_With soldiers and flanking and_ **

Frustration prickled in his shoulders. He could _feel_ his idea falling apart as he wrote it. How the hell did people manage to do this for a living? Round up the poets and have 'em all shot.

But that war thing was a good idea. Games as war, that made a lot of sense. You have two sides, and you have the pieces, those are the soldiers, and you have the maneuvers, like a general directing his troops...

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" he remembered Maeda asking, the day Muraoka told him exactly what his employment was going to involve. "Hiding behind a lamp in the corner of the room, looking at their tiles and everything?"

"Of course I'm sure!" the president snapped, his face flushing red. "Listen, you hide over there, and you give me signals. You remember the signals, right?"

"I do, but--" Maeda shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. "Isn't this cheating?"

Muraoka had laughed then, and he laughed now. Maybe every general had a cowardly captain or two that he had to talk some sense into. But what was cheating anyway, right? Espionage. Reconnaissance. You have to do an awful lot of unsavory things to win a war, and nobody ever ragged on the winners for it.

 ** _Seeing the things you can't see,_** he wrote.

**_That's how you win a war._ **

Well, it sounded kind of stilted and weird, and it looked a little wobbly on the page, but it had come out of him like lightning, just by thinking of what he normally did. Is this what people called the "artistic process?" You get a good idea, and then you just _do it,_ like that?

It was kind of underwhelming. He tilted his head, squinted at the letters, and rolled it around his brain again and again. That first line was good, pretty solid, almost there. Maybe just--

**_See that which cannot be seen._ **

Perfect. That's perfect, he thought to himself. Strong. Commanding. _Wise._ Smugly he placed his brush back down on the paper:

**_See that which cannot be seen._ **

**_This is the art of war._ **

Oddly, it didn't really sit well with him. Oh, sure, they were both fine lines, but they just didn't go together. He could just hear some annoying person asking "isn't the art of war about actually fighting?" in the back of his head. 

**_See that which cannot be seen._ **

**_That is the heart of gambling._ **

Wait a second.

 ** _See that which cannot be seen,_** he read.

**_That is the heart of gambling!_ **

Holy shit, that was it! A genuine two-line crystal of wisdom from President Takashi Muraoka himself, immortalized on the page. The wording was good. The rhythm wasn't bad. And he'd done it all himself! Andhe'd done it with the calligraphy set of a true, frustrated, _wealthy_ artistic genius. 

Good thing he'd been practicing his signature. Excitedly, he wrote his name on the left side of the piece, and--for good measure--he pulled out his chop and pressed it into the paper. 

He gently lifted up the paper, blew on it, waved it around, and carried it around his house as he admired it. Sure, he'd gone through fourteen or fifteen pieces of paper to get it, but it was finished, and it was _his!_ Now, what to do with it? One poem doesn't make an exhibition.

"Hell," he murmured, looking it over, "who says it doesn't?"

"Um, Mr. President?" Miyoshi asked. "What's that thing in the bathroom?" 

"You like it?" Muraoka said, puffing his chest out with pride. "It's my words of advice to my employees! A reminder to everyone who works here about what's really important!"

"Um, okay," Miyoshi replied mildly. "It...it's really something, Mr. President."

"Why, thank you! I guess everyone's got a hidden talent!" he laughed. Miyoshi and Maeda echoed it, nervously.


End file.
